169

169

ALTHEA

I stayed seated on the edge of his desk longer than I meant to.
That, in itself, felt like a failure.
The office smelled like ink and old paper and him—that steady, grounding scent that my wolf recognized even when I told myself not to. The windows were open, letting in afternoon light and the distant sounds of the pack moving through their day. Life. Normalcy. Belonging.
And Alpha Collin, standing far too close.
“You’re thinking again,” he said mildly.
I lifted my chin. “You say that like it’s a crime.”
“It is,” he replied, eyes flicking to my mouth. “When it makes you forget to breathe.”
I inhaled sharply out of spite.
He smiled, slow and satisfied. “There it is.”
I slid off the desk, putting a careful step between us. “You cornered me in your office just to tease me?”
“No,” he said, unbothered. “I cornered you to remind you that you’re still here.”
“I never left.”
“You were halfway gone,” he corrected quietly. “I could feel it.”
That took some of the fight out of me. I crossed my arms instead, a useless defense. “You don’t get to play mind reader.”
“I’m not,” he said. “I’m paying attention.”
He moved then—not forward, not closer—but sideways, blocking the clear path to the door without touching me. The message was unmistakable.
My pulse spiked.
“You enjoy this too much,” I muttered.
“Yes,” he said easily. “Because you don’t run anymore. You argue.”
“That’s not a compliment.”
“It is to me.”
I tried to step past him. He shifted smoothly, close enough that his arm brushed my sleeve. Heat flared, immediate and infuriating.
A sound slipped from me—soft, breathy, betraying.
He stilled.
His eyes darkened, not with anger, but with something dangerously patient.
“You do that,” he murmured, voice low. “Every time you’re overwhelmed.”
“I can’t help it,” I snapped, mortified.
“I know,” he said. “That’s why I don’t touch you when you do.”
My heart slammed. “You’re enjoying this.”
“Yes,” he repeated, honest. “But I’m also respecting it.”
“That’s a thin line.”
“I walk thinner ones every day.”
He leaned in—not enough to trap me, just enough that I felt the warmth of him like a living thing. My body responded instantly, traitorous and eager.
I hated it.
I hated him for noticing.
“You’re shaking,” he said softly.
“Because you’re too close.”
“And yet,” he murmured, eyes flicking to my hands, “you haven’t asked me to move.”
I swallowed. “Move.”
He didn’t.
Instead, he lifted a finger—one—and gently tipped my chin up so I had to meet his eyes. The contact was light, almost reverent.
“There,” he said quietly. “Look at you.”
I tried to glare. It came out weak.
His thumb brushed my jaw—barely there—and my breath caught again, humiliatingly loud in the quiet office.
“That sound,” he said, voice roughening just a touch. “You’re going to be the death of me.”
“Then stop,” I whispered.
“I could,” he said. “But you don’t want me to.”
“That’s not true.”
He smiled. “Then tell me to kiss you.”
My heart lurched painfully.
He waited.
The moment stretched—taut, unbearable.
I couldn’t say it.
He exhaled slowly and shifted his thumb away, leaning back just enough to give me space. “Good,” he said. “You’re still choosing.”
The relief and frustration hit at the same time.
“I hate that you do this,” I said hoarsely.
“I hate that I like it,” he admitted. “But I like you more.”
That shut me up.
Outside, someone laughed. Life went on.
Inside, my heart hammered like it wanted out of my chest.
He stepped aside at last, clearing the door. “Go,” he said gently. “Before I test my own restraint.”
I didn’t need to be told twice.
I slipped past him, pulse racing, cheeks burning, hating how much of myself he’d seen—and how carefully he’d stopped.
It didn’t stop after that.
If anything, the teasing softened into something more dangerous.
Something affectionate.
He’d pass by me in the courtyard and murmur, “Luna,” like the word was a secret meant only for me. He’d brush my shoulder when handing me reports, lingering just long enough to make my breath stutter.
Once, during a meeting, his knee brushed mine under the table. I froze, mortified, while he continued speaking like nothing had happened.
His gaze flicked to me—brief, amused.
I nearly combusted.
“You’re enjoying this,” I accused him later.
He didn’t deny it. “I enjoy you.”
“That’s worse.”
“No,” he said softly. “It’s honest.”
And the pack—my pack now—noticed.
Not the tension. Not the glances. But the way he listened when I spoke. The way he stood just a little closer to me than to anyone else. The way his voice softened when he said my name.
They respected me.
They trusted me.
They called me Luna like it had always been true.
One evening, as the sun dipped low and the pack gathered for dinner, he found me again—this time on the balcony overlooking the training grounds.
“You’re smiling,” he said, coming to stand beside me.
“I like it here,” I admitted quietly. “I like… us.”
His hand hovered near mine on the railing. Didn’t touch.
“Then stay,” he said.
“I am.”
He glanced at me, eyes warm and searching. “Good.”
The silence between us hummed—familiar now, charged but safe.
He leaned in and pressed a kiss to my forehead.
Not my mouth.
Never my mouth.
My heart hammered against my rib cage.
I hated that.
And loved it.
Because for the first time in my life, desire didn’t feel like something taken from me.
It felt like something I was choosing—one teasing, infuriating moment at a time.